Complete and utter darkness.

In front of you? Darkness.

Behind you? Darkness.

Inside you? Darkness.

Christ. Again. You’ve been here before, but it never gets any easier.

It’s times like these that you really wonder what your life has been. What wayward path has brought you to this point?

Could you have done things differently?

Course you could.

Should you have done things differently?

Who knows? No use wondering now is it?

All you know now, is how little you know. No idea what to do, where to turn.

You can’t even eat.

What did you do with yourself before all this? How did you even get through the day?

You could sleep, but you’ll have to wake.

You can’t just disappear, as much as it seems like everyone and everything around you seems to have done.

You lie down. Distraught.

Your limbs are weary and tired, but your mind is reeling too much for you to sleep.

Maybe everything’ll be alright in the morning. They say time fixes everything, right?

Maybe you’ll wake up and everything will be like it was before, and you won’t have to think about the answers to all the questions rushing through your head.

But then, a FLASH.

It’s over!

The power cut’s finished, the electricity’s back, so you can go on Facebook again and everything’s fine so K THX BAI.

Getting my hair cut is something I’m still uncomfortable doing. I get my hair cut every 2-3 months. Somewhere in between there.

The hair beside my ear (’locks’ I think they call that bit) is an indicator. When that bit grows long enough that I have to decide whether I tuck it behind my ears or not - then I have to start thinking when I’m gonna get the hair cut.

And there’s that two week or so period after the cut where it’s too short looking, then it’s reaches its optimum point, before completing the cycle and venturing into “too long” territory.

As every man knows, getting a hair cut takes all day.

If I’m planning out my week, “haircut” will be assigned to a certain day, and NOTHING ELSE can be planned.

So, I wake up at around 12pm. Should I do something? Nah, can’t. Getting my hair cut later.

Stroll down around 2pm. In I go. There’s one guy sitting on the couch there, and he’s old. Why is he getting his hair cut? He doesn’t need a hair cut. Is he deluded? Is this his last shred of youth?

Oh wait, maybe the kid getting his hair cut is his son.

Fuck it, none of my business. It’ll be me in thirty or forty years anyway.

A woman walks in with a young boy, and a pram.

Oh Christ.

A pram in the barbers.

You know what that means.

A baby in the barbers.

There are few things I fear more than a baby in the barbers.

See, barbers are full of men. So when a woman comes down with her son to get his hair cut, and brings her baby, it’s awkward. No men know how to act with a baby.

What the fuck am I supposed to do when the baby smiles at me and makes some gurgling noise?

I probably should smile back. But when I consider doing that, I just imagine myself grinning at the baby with a dirty pedo-smile. Here is a rendering of what I think I’ll look like (ironically I forgot to do the hair).

The horrified mother will look at me in disgust. Then she’ll look at my crotch. My jeans will have done that self-made bulge thing that all trousers do, but she’ll misinterpret that and run out of the barbers.

So I usually ignore the baby. If there’s a newspaper there, you’re laughing.

There’s a relatively new barbers in my town, and it’s run by eastern European women. I first went there out of curiosity. I kept going there for the bewbs.

When they call “Next please!”, I still have a little jolt of panic, as if I’m actually doing something important

Oh God, what do I ask for again?

What if I stutter and panic and ask for the wrong thing?

Do I have an erection?

So I stand up and walk towards the chair. I then ask for what I always do (at least I think so - every time I’m there I always wonder if I’ve actually forgotten what I usually get).

“Four back and sides, fives on t-”

“Yes, seet dowhn pleesh”

Fucking hell. I don’t know why, but every time I go up and tell them what I want, they interrupt, and get me to sit down first, then say what I want. It’s bullshit. Just let me fucking finish for Christ’s sake.

I hate telling them what haircut I want when I’m sitting down, facing the mirror, with them behind me. It’s not normal. So I tend to half turn around which makes me look a total spastic. I can’t win.

Last time I went down, this did indeed happen.

So while sitting, I ‘made my order’.

“Four back and sides, five on top please”.

Now, I said already how I worry about asking for the wrong haircut. So there’s a few things I don’t want to hear after I ask.

She responded with a delightful :

“FIIIVE? ARE YOU SUUURE?”

“Eh, yeah, I think that’s what I usually get.”

She ruffles my hair.

“Bit short no? Six, maybe?”

“Eh, fair enough, that’s fine.”

So away she goes. I hate the bullshit questions they ask then. I don’t mean conversation - that’s fine - but the bullshit hair questions I don’t give a fuck about, and never know how to answer.

“Cut fringe yes?”

“Ah yeah, give it a trim”.

Is that a normal response? Am I supposed to give more specific instructions? There’s no guidelines for this shit. Why is there no guidelines?!

“And the locks?”

“Ah yeah, just make ‘em eh, normal”

She laughed.

Does anyone actually have specific instructions for these little things? I should bloody well hope not.

The second last time I was down there getting a haircut, there was a rather large woman cutting my hair. She was gruff and wearing a low top. She was reefing me around the place. Fine by me, if it hurries the whole process then go for it love. Ya feisty little barber ya.

So at one point she forces my head downwards, and snips away. I do everything I can to ensure I don’t move my head, lest she attack me with the razor. She then turns my head towards her.

My face literally couldn’t have been closer to her breasts.

Seriously.

Breastfed at the barbers.

At this point my mind raced through all the inappropriate things I could have done at that moment.

I quite fancied looking up at her, right into her eyes, doing this face ;

and then returning to the depths of cleavage she’d placed me in.

But I just stifled my giggles and soldiered on.

And what’s to stop anyone running out of the barbers after you get your hair cut? They can’t exactly catch you and stick the hair back on.

And don’t get me started on the itchiness afterwards. Or the stray hairs on your hand when you scratch your head.

Anyway, I wish to open a new barbers. Man barbers. It’ll be for people like me who don’t really care about their hair, they just want to get that shit cut and looking normal. The barbers are women wearing only lingerie, and they don’t speak a word of English. But that doesn’t matter because they don’t need to understand instructions. It’s the same haircut for everyone. You also drink beer while your hair is cut. No questions, no bullshit. Football and car magazines are there for you while you wait.

Is that sexist?

I fucking hope so.

This post is a little shameless promotion, aimed especially at Trinity College students.

I’m urging you all to go pick up a copy of TCD Miscellany. It’s free and you should find it outside the SU shop, and possibly elsewhere.

I’m the back-page columnist, which is why I’m urging y’all to go pick it up. It’s a very good read right through though.

For people who can’t go pick up the magazine, check out the website where you can read it online.

As for my article, I have permission to throw it up here for your pleasure, so here you go.

“So How Was Your Summer?

Ah sure. You know yourself. Grand.

I look forward to Summer all year long. But after a few weeks of arsing around, you realise it’s actually pretty shit. When you’re off galavanting and doing things with your life it’s good, but that doesn’t happen to me that often.

What’s worse is the pressure to go and do something. Because you just know that in a few months time, people are going to be asking you the question that titles this “article”. Sometimes I find myself doing things solely so I can have a good answer for that.

Can’t I just vegetate in my own filth please?

Similarly, whenever I do something remotely interesting, there’s that little voice at the back of my mind telling me that this’ll make a fuckin’ whopper facebook status. People’ll comment it, “like” it – the whole shebang.

It can be depressing at times. A particular moment springs to mind here. It was a Friday evening, 5pm. The start of the weekend, and I’m a free man. I could do anything I want to. Anything. But there I find myself – unshowered, unshaved. Having not eaten at all that day. Not even dressed yet. On the toilet. Laptop at my feet. Playing ‘Connect 4’ online against someone who’s probably far younger than I am. Listening to old school wrestling music to remind me of my childhood. Times like those really make your day y’know? The times you realise you are totally fulfilling your potential.

And then people go asking you what you’ve done with your day. And I have to lie or at least sugar-coat the truth.

“Oh you know, just chilled really. Took it handy.”

I guess it’d be a tad unsociable to tell them you woke up at 4pm, had half a Moro for breakfast (left over from yesterday), masturbated, went on facebook, lost track of time looking at photos of people you don’t know, then considered masturbating again but got distracted by them asking you on MSN how your day has gone.

I become so utterly useless during the summer that I consider the most mundane of things to be an achievement. Cutting my nails for example. I cut my nails in the morning and that’s it for the day. I’m done. Drained. I deserve a treat. Fetch me a crisp sandwich! The traditional Summer cuisine. Works for every meal.

My summer wasn’t all play though. There was some drama thrown in there. Oh yes. You better believe it.

There was an incident with the lunch I was making one day. I decided to go a bit mad and do some proper cooking. Naturally, I went for beans on toast.

I threw some beans in a cup, and bunged ‘em into the microwave. Stuck the toast in the toaster. Less than a minute later I hear a sort of splashing noise.

Oh Christ.

The worst has happened.

All hope is lost.

It’s a disaster of Chernobyl proportions.

I forgot to cover the beans while microwaving them.

I open the microwave and see bean juice scattered everywhere. Pandemonium ensues.

What do I do first, eat or clean? The age old question.

If I eat first, the bean juice’ll harden and be a cunt to clean. If I clean, the beans’ll go cold.

Then the toast pops up.

I had to make a mad dash for the fridge to ensure I got that butter before it went past the point whereby it wouldn’t melt into the toast properly.

I’m not sure anyone else could so catastrophically prepare a meal of beans on toast. It’s up there with Homer Simpson setting the cereal on fire.

Most of you would think I couldn’t possibly cram more drama into the three months of Summer.

You’d be wrong. Catastrophically wrong.

On, not one, not two, but three separate occasions, a daddy long-legs found its way into my bedroom. I’ve learned that a spider coming into the room is an event that nobody will ever, ever become comfortable with. Every time I see a spider in the room I go into full-on panic mode, as if I’ve just had a gun pointed in my face.

Kill him! No, kill it! Don’t personify what you intend to kill.

I leap up, and then begin the frantic search for a murder weapon. My mind then works out the trade-off between my desperation to kill the spider while it’s still in sight, and my unwillingness to use a birthday card to do the deed. But then, genius strikes. The Argos catalogue. The book given to us by the gods for all our spider-killings needs. It’s probably out of date by now anyway.

And as I scoop the frail little spider corpse into the bin, in what has to be the most undignified funeral the world had ever seen, remorse sets in. Did I really have to kill the spider? He could have had a family. He might just have been looking for food to bring back to the nest or whatever it is spiders live in. Then again, he might have walked on my pillow during the night. Fuck it, good decision.

So that was my Summer. Oh, I also went interrailing. The problem here is that when people hear I interrailed, they get very excited and ask me what it was like, expecting an exciting, potentially life-changing answer. All I can usually muster is a mumbled “Ah yeah, it was good…”.

There it is folks. “It was good.” Isn’t that the exciting answer you were hoping for? Are you all atwitter now? Three words, one syllable each.

IT.

WAS.

GOOD.

Don’t get me wrong, it actually was good – amazing infact, I just feel like a total fraud for not having a more exciting response.

But yeah, Summer’s alright innit?”

Now, can anyone tell me how I actually pronounce “miscellany”?

Friday night. Finally some respite from the office job. A hard week’s work has left some money in your pocket and you’ve no hesitation about spending it.

A new shirt first of all.

Looks good. Worth the hefty price tag.

A crate of beer next. Stack the fridge full, and ask the lads around for a few drinks before you head out to a club. One of them mentioned something about someone’s birthday, and everyone’s heading to a club in town. You don’t really care though. You just want to get fucking drunk and have a good time. More importantly, you’re going to pull.

It’s been a while.

The fruitless flirting over the desk in work is tiresome.

Unchased opportunities that you regret. The times you simply weren’t arsed. The times you were well on the way to success but drank too much and all you remember is that it didn’t happen in the end.

Not tonight though.

Yeah you’ll have a few drinks. But not too many.

You’re having one of those days when you just feel confident. You woke up with your charming hat on, and it’s not falling off any time soon.

Shit, shower and shave. New shirt on. Looking good.

The lads come around. All in good form. Grateful for the beers and hospitality. You’re especially witty tonight - no surprise there - cracking jokes left, right and centre.

The beers go down well along with a few slices of pizza. Stomach well lined, and mind gently merry - you hop in a taxi, but not before a splash of aftershave. Oh yes.

The taxi driver, who’s a cool guy you had a laugh with, gets you into town in good time. No hassle getting into the club. Didn’t even get asked for ID.

You get the lads a round of beers. Your wallet’s still thick with notes though, don’t worry.

Then one of them comes up to you with a girl, and introduces her. The birthday girl!

Decent looking girl. Not amazing - but decent.

You have a lot of friends in common as it turns out. You’re fairly certain you’ve seen her around before but don’t say that because you’re not sure. You ask her what she’s drinking. Vodka and coke? No bother. Let me buy you a birthday drink. She coyly accepts. You also get two shots of Sambuca. One each love, come on. She twists her face after downing the shot. You don’t. She’s impressed and grateful for the drinks.

You and her have a good laugh. You’ve continued with your witty form from earlier. It’s safe to say you’re doing some top notch wooing.

A song comes on that was being played in the taxi on the way in. You now realise it’s fucking class and you want to dance to it.

Birthday girl takes you by the hand to the dancefloor.

Christ she’s a good dancer. You’re not usually a dancer but with a few drinks inside you, an attractive women on you, and confidence oozing out of you - you’re Fred fucking Astaire.

Christ she’s gorgeous.

The hours in the club pass, one of your mates got way too drunk but one of the lads took one for the team and brought him home. While agreeing to do so he gave you a wink and said “You’re in there son” with a nod to the birthday girl. Great guy. You’d get him a pint if he wasn’t leaving with the drunkard.

You don’t remember how it first happened but you spent the guts of the last hour in the club lip-locked with the girl. You definitely made some cheesy joke about it being her birthday present, but fuck that. A mere bump in the road to orgasm.

On the way out of the place you see someone from school. Haven’t seen him in years! A lot of drunken hand-shaking ensues.

You get a taxi home with her.

Maybe have one of the beers leftover from earlier, then upstairs to do the deed.

Make the beast with two backs.

You wish you’d stopped in the chipper after the club though. You’re starving and would fucking murder some chips right now.

Then again, you don’t want to be bloated during the night’s, ahem, climax.

The taxi drive made you a little sick but your stomach soon settles. No way is it going to fuck you over. Today is just your lucky day.

Probably should have thrown a few quid on the horses and all.

You get up to your room. The day that’s in it, your room is fairly tidy. You also thank your lucky stars that you gave your pubes a quick trim recently.

As she sits sexily on your bed, she asks for some music to set the mood.

You head over to the stereo, stumbling a little. Did she notice? Did she fuck! She was busy getting her shoes off.

What music to put on?

You want something that somehow reflect the act that’ll soon follow. But what?

Fuck it. Lady luck’s been good to you all day, just take a chance. Just press play. Whatever CD’s in there already can’t be that bad. You’ve a great taste in music anyway. She’ll be well impressed if it’s something a little obscure.

You hit play and strut back over to her, waiting to see what music’s going to be drowning out the inevitable noise.

And BAM.

I can be a bit of a Nazi when it comes to spelling and grammar. Or speeling and grammer, if that’s what sort of cretin you are.

Mainly just for important stuff. When people should be concerned about it. Not personal texts or emails or anything like that.

Now, last year, the Students’  Union for my college were considered a bit of a let-down. Being a first year, I had nothing to compare to, so can’t really comment.

But it did bother me seeing glaring mistake in emails or articles by the SU officers. Is it much to ask them to proof-read their drivel? I’d have happily taken a glance over it for them.

This year, I voted for the new officers of the SU. All but one of the people I gave my number one vote to, got the job.

I was looking forward to seeing what the new SU could do. I hoped their promises of “righting the wrongs” etc. weren’t empty.

The other day they sent out their first email. I was actually looking forward to reading it.

The subject was : “Welcome from the new Students’  Union”.

Yes!

They didn’t fall at the very first hurdle. That apostrophe in that sentence is one many people get wrong so I was glad at least they got that right.

First sentence : “We hope you are having a great Summer”.

Gee, thanks guys. It’s even better now I’m starting to believe I’m not going to receive an email from grammatical retards every week.

Second sentence : “We are the new officers in the Students’ Union and wanted to say hello and take this opportunity to intorduce ourselves”.

Oh for the cunting love of Christ.

The second fucking sentence.

Intorduce yourself to my pedantic fucking hole.

I didn’t read the rest of the email.

I glanced and saw different fonts, different sizes and all that shit.

I’d rather they emailed a picture of their own turds.

Maybe I am being a bit silly. It’s just a typo.

I just consider it important to read over stuff at least once before you send it to thousands of people. Thousands.

Or at least read over the first two fucking sentences.

Now, if anyone’s trying to place where I got the title from, here y’are. If you’re from Trinity SU, try this instead.

Ireland against Italy.

The dying minutes of the game and it’s 1-1.

The Irish have fought and grafted. The Italians, far superior on the ball and in terms of fitness, have dominated the game. Ireland are characteristically brave, spurred on by the legions of fans who travelled over, engulfing the stadium in a sea of green and noise.

The prospect of extra time fills Irish minds with that feeling of dread they’ve come to expect from their soccer team over the years.

Please.

Just this once.

Give us a final.

Please.

For the past week, the windows of all houses and cars in Ireland have had that tri-coloured flag fluttering out of them. Football fans have been euphoric. Non-football fans have been swept up in the delirium and become proud fans of the beautiful game.

The Italians have fitness, and squad depth, not to mention they can make one more substitution. They have that intimidating air of nonchalance. They’ve class and experience in big matches that we just don’t have.

The Irish will never give up, but it doesn’t look like they’ll hold out much longer. No substitutes left to make. Their captain taken off after going down with cramp for the second time in the match. He ran his heart out - you knew he would - but he’d nothing left to give.

A corner to Italy. The big centre-backs are up. All but one of the Irish players are back defending. Backs against the wall time now.

Irish hearts in mouths.

Lofted in.

Cleared!

Booted up to the big centre forward - the quintessential Irish striker.

He holds it up, waiting for support. Tries to make a run at goal when he realises the support won’t be coming any time soon.

Pulled to the ground.

A lazy tackle gives Ireland a free-kick, about 30 yards out.

Thank fuck. Some relief from the bombardment of Italian attack.

All eyes focus on the kick-taker.

It’s 22 year-old midfield maestro, Mark Walsh.

A nine year-old Mark Walsh strolls into his living room.

Fresh on the scene and in his first world cup, he takes the ball in his shaking hands and places it delicately on the grass.

Young Mark spots his beloved sponge football he kicks around the house. Places it on the centre of the carpet. There’s a stain there right in the middle that he uses for a placing spot. He actually made the stain himself while trying to carry a glass that was too full of blackcurrant squash. Just a little spilled but it made a proper stain. But nobody saw it happen so it was okay.

The camera focuses on the young playmaker’s football boots. The latest Nikes - not even in stores yet. Nike were delighted to secure a lucrative sponsorship deal with Walsh after he became a footballing phenomenon and global sex symbol.

Mark fixes the sock on his right foot so that his toe is no longer sticking out of the hole in the top.

Walsh takes a few steps back and takes a deep breath. He nods at his team-mates to let them know he’s gonna have a go. Get ready for a rebound or something lads. Not easy to beat this keeper from here.

The fourth classer who recently got 100% in his spelling test takes two steps back from the sponge ball. He’d like to take more but the couch is in the way.

Walsh looks at the wall of players blocking him. He looks into the eyes of Alessandro Del Piero - his boyhood hero. Just thirteen years ago his bedroom wall was covered in photos of the man who now stood ten yards from him.

Up and over the wall, and curl it into the left top corner. Worth a try.

Mark, who has just moved on to wear boxer shorts rather than briefs, eyes up the living room. Pesky armchair. Up and over the armchair, don’t hit the vase, and into the curtains. Just don’t hit the vase. He’d hit it before and it fell but thankfully it landed on a pile of clothes waiting to be ironed. He vowed then never to play in the house again, but boys will be boys.

Walsh starts his run up. A nation, nay, the entire footballing world, holds its breath.

If he scores, he’ll put Ireland in their first ever World Cup final. A hero, a legend. A name never to be forgotten. Should he miss, extra time beckons, during which the Italians will surely break down the weakening Irish defence.

Mark takes his two step run up to the sponge ball.

Strikes it cleanly.

It’s over the wall.

The keeper’s scrambling.

It’s in!

The vase was safely avoided and the ball sailed into the crease of the curtain.

He’s done it! Oh Mark Walsh, Ireland’s saviour! Never before have we seen such -

Shit. Dad’s coming down the stairs. Better hide the ball before he sees what I’m at.

It’s 5pm on a Friday.

No work, no college, I can do whatever I want.

And there I am.

Unshowered. Unshaven.

Haven’t eaten or drank a single thing that day yet.

Not even dressed.

On the toilet.

Laptop at my feet.

Playing ‘Connect 4′ online against someone who’s probably a lot younger than me.

Listing to old school wrestling music.

It’s times like these I think to myself…

I’m totally fulfilling my potential.

“An Afghan bill allowing a husband to starve his wife if she refuses to have sex has been published in the official gazette and become law.”

Well now. Ain’t the world a funny old place?

I think we all like to think we all live in a nice, happy, modern world. We look back on past atrocities like the wars and wonder how it was all allowed to happen. But sure that sort of thing continues even today.

Even in Ireland, stupidity reigns. Let’s just take the example of drinking laws - something that affects most of us (I’m aware I’ve talked about this before, I won’t go on too much about this bit). Off licences stop serving drink at 10pm - what a great fucking decision that was. Now we all have to buy our drink earlier and more often that not,  start drinking earlier. Pubs and clubs turf everyone out at the same time, which is why we have fights and trouble outside clubs. Go to Europe and see places that stay open late, everyone leaves when they want and there’s less trouble. Ireland is so fucking backwards sometimes.

Many developing countries aren’t really developing at all, are they? But we like to ignore that.

It’s sad to think that decades from now people will look at some of the decisions that were made, and events that occurred at this very time, and say “What were they thinking?”. Just like we do when we read history books now.

Sometimes I really do despair.

But then something like this wife-starving law comes along and I realise everything’s gonna be alright.

See ya later lads, I’m off to Afghanistan!

Course you do.

You printed it out and stuck it in your walsho scrapbook.

Well, obviously, I bought a new phone.

I went down to the local Xtra-Vision and asked for the cheapest Meteor phone. I figured in this day and age, all phones have to be good. Surely it’s difficult to get a shit phone nowadays?

Nope.

Not difficult at all apparently.

In fact, to get a shit phone, it seems all you must do is go down to the local Xtra-Vision, and ask for the cheapest Meteor phone.

It’s a Nokia something or other. It disgusts me so much that I don’t even want to know the full name of the thing. It’s like if I knew its full name I’d be giving it some sort of validation or dignity.

So why is it so shit?

1. When I threw in my old sim card and looked through the contacts, they were all fucked up. They all had like an “A/” in front. Also, anyone who I’d given a surname to, that surname came first. This doesn’t sound too bad at first, but I tend to add descriptions of people after their name.

For example, people I met in college, often go in as “XXXX (College)”. Some of these descriptions are actually really long, as I don’t trust myself to remember things, particularly when drunk - the most common time when new contacts are added to your phone.

So that took fucking ages to sort out.

2. This thing is so damn slow. I don’t understand how it can be so slow. It’s like a depressed pensioner of a phone. They must have made it slow intentionally, so people would get pissed off and buy a better phone.

When I hit “Reply” to a message, it takes ages to respond. So naturally I press the button again. Then, it goes and reacts to the two hits - immediately sending a blank message. Cue me going red with rage. This was especially annoying as it happened a lot when I was away in Europe, when texts cost a fucking bomb to send.

3. It doesn’t light up at the jabbing of any button. When it’s locked, you have to press the centre button to get it to light up. This wrecks my head. My old phone would light up when you hit any button. Some of you may ask why this is such a problem. Mainly, because when I’m just getting up and want to check my phone for messages, I used to just give it a little poke with a toe. I didn’t have to aim. All I had to do was ensure some part of my foot mashed the keypad, and it’d light up, telling me if I had new messages. Now I have to use some military precision to check.

And I’m fucked if I’m picking up my phone and using my hands. No way, no how.

You can fuck right off mate.

I’m not bending down unless I really have to.

4. The vibration is a load of wank. My old phone had a polite little vibration alert - three little buzzes.

This new phone comes barging in, swinging his arms and shouting around like a lout with SIX FUCKING BUZZES.

This means that when the phone’s in my pocket it takes longer to determine whether or not I’m just being texted, or I have to prepare my phone voice, because I’m being called.

Just plain arrogance. My old phone was all lovely, getting my attention with a quiet clearing of his throat and an “excuse me sir, but one believes a text has arrived on thine phone”.

This cunt waltzes up, rings the doorbell three times, pushes me out of the way while clutching a half empty can of Dutch Gold, scratches his balls while failing to notice his zip is undone, and declares ” ‘ERE MATE, YOU GORRA TEXT OR SUMMAT” before puking on himself and passing out on my couch.

4. This is a recent issue. Now, when I get a text, it’s showing up as arriving an hour before it actually arrived. The time on my phone is correct, but for some reason, when I get a text at 6.30, it says it arrived at 5.30. Often I go large periods without looking at my phone, so I apologised to someone today for taking so long to respond to a text, when really I’d been about five minutes.

So now it’s making a fool of me.

I trusted my old phone. If for some reason it didn’t send a text, I’d be grateful, and think there was probably a reason my phone refused to text. Just looking out for me. But this new guy, he’s out to get me.

There’s plenty of other little things. The last one I’ll mention is such a minor thing, but I just don’t understand why it’s there.

When texting, you press the # button to change to capitals. I often do this for comedic effect, with hilarious results. But for some reason, if you press the “delete” button if you make a mistake, it takes the caps off again. So I’m in the middle of doing a shouty text, I make a minor mistake (without doubt caused by the phone’s shitness), delete the mistake, continue with the shouty text, only hang on! It’s back to lowercase.

Why the fuck did they do this? What genius decided this would be a good idea?

I can only believe this abortion of a phone was designed by a complete idiot - but a lovable idiot. Nobody in Nokia had the heart to tell him it’s not a patch on the old 3210 model, let alone the stuff out these days. So they went and made it.

Piss off phone (you’ll notice I haven’t even named this one), you’re a bastard.

When I look at it I don’t think “that’s my phone” like I used to with the old one.

We just don’t have the chemistry.

More efficient technology has come out of my dog’s ass.

And I don’t even have a dog.

I’ve recently set up a new site - Today I Lol’d. It uses the same script as the very popular FMyLife. I think it’s pretty obvious what the site’s all about, once you take a look.

Users submit stories, other users vote or comment on the stories. Everyone has some lolz.

So why blog about it?

I want you to help me promote it. I spent whatever money I had on my recent interrailing trip, so have zero cash to spend on promoting the site.

So think of everything I’ve done for you walsho.net readers. All the entertainment, all the laughs, the tears, the orgasms - everything.

Do whatever you can. Join the site, submit a story, tell a few friends, blog about it, link to it, stumble it, or even follow the twitter page or join the facebook group. Then you could always recommend the facebook page to friends. Digg users can see the submission here.  I’d be grateful for anything. Every little helps. And anyway, the site’s good, you’ll enjoy it.

Or just give me lots of money to go promoting*

(*Note : Money will almost certainly be spent on alcohol).

G’wan.